


Mine Once More

by uumuu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Nipple Licking, Post-War of the Ring, Reunions, Rivendell | Imladris, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the Third Age, Gildor rekindles his relationship with his long-lost lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine Once More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



“You should know better than anybody else that it's foolish to try to leave your sins behind.”

“Oh but it's not that, little one,” Maglor retorted, and the husky rumble of his voice washed over Gildor's back with the same force with which the waterfall right opposite him plunged down into the crag below, one of the many tall slender leaps by which the Bruinen broke into the hidden valley.

Gildor leant out of the open window, and turned to the left, letting his gaze sweep over it.

Rivendell looked entirely different from this angle – the top of one of the outlying towers to the north of the town, just above the higher of two bridges connecting the facing sides of the settlement. His sojourns in Rivendell had never been too long, and Maglor's presence alone was enough to make him feel as if he had just arrived in a new land, as if he set eyes on the river flowing peacefully at the bottom of the ravine – its waters almost obscured by dead leaves in all the hues of autumn – for the first time in his life. If he looked up, he could almost fancy the ashen blue evening sky was the sea, and pretend he smelled the rotten algae of the beaches where he had often looked for his lost lover, now finally found again.

The balmy fragrance of balsam firs filled his lungs as he took a deep breath before turning to glance at him. 

Maglor reclined on a plush daybed, propped up by a silken cushion, his hands in his lap, his legs crossed, still dressed in his dusty traveller's clothes. Gildor walked over to him, but sat on the edge of the daybed, still facing the window.

“What is it then? Why disappear for so long?”

The daybed creaked. Maglor uncrossed his legs and crossed them again.

“Because I couldn't do anything else. I _needed_ to be alone. To remember –”

Maglor's voice drifted through the air like an elusive butterfly. Gildor waited for him to finish, to give him a full explanation, but when he realised that none was forthcoming, that that was all Maglor was going to say on the subject, he could not prevent himself from blurting out his own feelings.

“And I –...I spent all those years, century after wearisome century, looking for you, heeding every tale of sorrowful voices near the sea, scouring the western lands of Middle-Earth, the surviving scraps of Beleriand, like a soul possessed, all for nothing.” He halted to catch his breath. “I killed for you. I put you before my family, before my honour, and yet you disregarded all that, chasing ghosts, clutching at the faded ashes of your past rather than be with me. But it is as it should,” he inhaled deeply. His exhale was shaky. “It is my punishment...and my curse. And a curse is shackle.” He twisted his upper body so that he could look at Maglor. “And thus I'm bound to you.”

“There's no Valinor for us together,” Maglor said, “but you may go back.”

The words were blunt, raw as scraped skin. Gildor's eyes bulged. He balanced himself on his left hand, leant forward and slapped Maglor with all the force in his body. “You think I wouldn't have gone back already if I had wanted to, you arrogant, selfish bastard? Do I have to pull my heart out of my chest and hand it over to you in place of one of your accursed jewels to make you understand?”

Maglor's head was still bent to the side, his eyes closed. An echo of the slap reverberated in Gildor's ears, a prelude of regret. Gildor would regret hitting Maglor. Truly feel guilty about it, even though he had every right to be angry, and even though nobody would have blamed him for it.

Maglor slowly faced him again. 

“You could not,” he said, trenchant, and silence settled again between them. 

After a time, the elf Elrond had charged with getting a warm bath ready for Maglor peered uncertainly into the room, and started upon meeting Maglor's eyes instead of Gildor's. Maglor could tell at a glance that he was very young. Sinless, unburdened. He poked Gildor in the back with his knee, and as soon as Gildor turned a sullen face on him he lifted his chin in the direction of the door. 

“The bath is ready,” the elf said quickly, jumbling the words together, and had already scuttled away before Gildor had a chance to acknowledge what he said or thank him. 

With a sigh, he rose and led Maglor out of the room and through a long corridor. The smooth stones of the floor were hidden by a long red carpet, once bright, now faded and frayed at the edges. Maglor's heavy footsteps thundered on it, Gildor's barely made a sound and he couldn't help dwelling on how long it had been since he had walked side by side with Maglor somewhere that wasn't the wilderness, an encampment, or a battlefield.

“It must have taken a while to build this settlement,” Maglor broke the silence, looking up at the high vaults.

“It withstood two sieges,” Gildor tersely replied, eyes fixed on the steps they were climbing.

“Yes, I heard that. But the tales don't give a proper idea of how big it is.”

“Of course they don't. It is kept hidden not only by the mountains, but thanks to Vilya's power too...the ring your nephew made.”

It was a low blow to mention Celebrimbor like that, but it didn't seem to affect Maglor in any way. 

“I still do wonder what Tyelperinquar's plan was with those rings.”

They got to the end of the corridor in silence, and in silence they climbed a winding stair to reach the bath-house, its largest pool occupying the last floor of a round bartizan, with windows on all sides. Curtains fluttered gently in the wind and Maglor turned in every which direction to take in the unobstructed view over the valley. 

Gildor let him do, schooling himself to indifference, but when Maglor began to undress he took his clothes, and couldn't help examine them with a critical eye before he dumped them disdainfully in a basket, vicarious victims of a resentment that wasn't really directed at them. They were all made from sturdy, durable fabrics, the best to be had in mannish towns, as if Maglor had been the son of a well-to-do merchant or town-lord instead of a lone wandering elf. 

Maglor's dark skin was traversed by countless scars, some larger and jagged, some thin, old and new almost obliterating each other. A couple had such a peculiar shape that they stirred Gildor's curiosity even more, but Maglor was otherwise in very good physical shape. Of course he was. Maglor knew how to look after himself. How foolish of him expect Maglor to be frail, weak, to need his help. How pitiful, to expect his loved one would be desperate enough to cling to him. He could have just as well tossed a diamond against a wall and expected it to break. 

He lay his palm flat in the middle of Maglor's back, watched his muscles ripple with the sudden disturbance of his cold hand. 

“You're not joining me?” Maglor said, turning to find him still fully clothed. 

Gildor met his gaze and snapped. He threw his arms around Maglor's back and sobbed “I missed you,” right into Maglor's chest.

Tears trickled down his cheeks, angry and grudging, but his heart leapt in joy when Maglor embraced him back and pulled him even closer with a heavy sigh.

“I thought...you could be free,” he whispered into Gildor's hair.

“I don't care about being free, you heartless fool,” Gildor hissed through his teeth. “I want to be with you.”

Maglor moved, and by a careful manoeuvre pulled him into the warm water. Gildor lay on top of Maglor, dressed as he was, still holding tight onto him, eyes closed. He opened them when Maglor lifted his chin – his image was blurred – and closed them again as Maglor started raining kisses on his face.

***

After the bath, they descended to the abandoned garden at the foot of the High Wall, where Elrond waited for them. It used to be a place of beauty, filled with flowers and merriment. The bridges and pavilions that dotted it were built inside the shallow waters of a secondary branch of the Bruinen, but the stonework was now in disrepair, and some of the walkways had collapsed: a stark premonition of what would happen to the rest of the town now that most of its inhabitants were leaving, never to return.

Elrond stood in the only pavilion which could still be reached without wetting one's feet. It was also the tallest, supported by sturdy pillars, and Maglor went up the shallow stairs to join him. 

It didn't take much effort on Elrond's part to find Maglor: he had just talked to his hobbit friends and asked them to report any sighting of a dark, lonesome elf with glowing eyes. Gildor, although begrudging, was very conscious of the reasons why Elrond hadn't sought Maglor before, and why he could do it at the close of the Third Age instead, before he was to leave Middle-Earth forever. It would have been much easier for Gildor himself to find Maglor if alerting towns and villages to the fact that he was looking for a Kinslayer wouldn't have been frowned upon by his peers.

He was also very conscious of Elrond's generosity in doing it now, so he let him and Maglor talk on their own, say their farewells, and whiled time away walking among the skeletal trees which endured here and there, and tracing the dulled carvings on the stone, his eyes still stinging from his weeping.

“So, how did it go?” he asked when he heard those familiar footsteps behind himself, suppressing a shiver at how that simple sound made him happy, and at the anticipation-filled thought of how often he would hear it in the future.

Maglor looked wistful when he faced him, half-lidded eyes trained unseeing on the dirt at his feet.

“Well,” he said at last. “I gave him a message for my mother, and...a message for my father.”

Gildor took his hand away from the railing he had unconsciously been leaning against. The bottomless longing in Maglor's tone evoked a fleeting image of his own parents and siblings. He did miss them, but his own nostalgia wasn't laced with pain: his family had never crossed the sea, and he knew they were safe, alive, and very likely happy.

“We will tarry here, unto world's end, together,” he said, and took Maglor's right hand.

The ring he slipped onto Maglor's ring finger had been lovingly guarded on his own ring finger for centuries, handed back to him by Maglor himself before Maedhros and he left for the camp of the Valar. It hadn't been much use as a means not to forget: he didn't need physical reminders. But it had given him focus, a tangible purpose – the goal to return the ring where it belonged. That goal was now fulfilled, and the dead garden was a curiously fitting stage for his pomp-less triumph. He twined their fingers together, so that the ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand clinked against Maglor's, as they often had before during their years together. 

Maglor smiled down at the rings still with yearning in his eyes, but his cheeks dimpled, the one sure sign that his smile was genuine, one that gave him a childish and almost buoyant air. 

“Elrond said he'll have someone bring us dinner here. Care to show me around the garden?” he said and the same liveliness was in his tone.

Gildor couldn't help thinking of their all too brief honeymoon in Valinor, when they had spent the days lounging naked in the plush grass of the garden of Maglor's hill-side villa. Maglor probably wanted to avoid being seen by the elves of Rivendell, too. “Of course.”

“It looks like this was a very fine garden once,” Maglor remarked, as they left the dry walkway and ventured into the water. They were barefoot, and it didn't matter if the hems of their robes should get wet.

“It used to be Celebrían's favourite retreat from the hustle and bustle of the town.”

“I see,” Maglor murmured.

“We could renovate it,” Gildor suggested, determined not to let the past eat away at life as it had done for so long. “Drain the water, rebuild the walkways and plant whatever flowers we want.”

Maglor smiled. “Honeysuckle and butterfly-bushes...sounds like a plan.”

Their feet splashed through water and fallen leaves, as they made their way, hand-in-hand, to a high bridge and from there descended a carven staircase that lead onto an open platform, delimited at the back by a large building, from where the length of the garden could be appreciated in its entirety.

“This was a hall for dancing and merry-making, but it was turned into a sanctuary in remembrance of the fallen over the course of the last century,” Gildor explained.

The door to the building had rotten away and ivy hung all over the empty frame like a listless curtain. Only a shaft of light, rebounding on the nearby wall, cut through the shadows inside, making the closely stacked stelae look even drearier. Maglor did not step over the threshold, but paid his respects to the dead in his mind. Then he turned towards the garden again. His hand squeezed Gildor's tighter.

“It seems so quaint.”

“What?”

“The idea of having a...place to plant seeds and wait for flowers to grow.” Maglor looked around. “On the rare occasions I told people where I truly came from, they'd always assume that my life there lasted for long weighty ages. But it seems so immaterial to me...like a dream, one that never dims, though unattainable, and ever beckons.”

Gildor brought their entwined hands to his mouth and kissed them. “You were such a dream to me...yet here we are.”

***

The bedroom allotted to them was in an out-of-the-way turret at the very back of the town, facing the sheer walls of the mountains that shielded the vale, where the Bruinen could not be seen and even the noise of the waterfalls was but a distant rustling. It was only a temporary arrangement – with the majority of the inhabitants gone, they would have the town not only as a home and flowerbed, but as a small kingdom to rule between themselves.

Gildor pushed Maglor onto the bed and, kneeling over him, took his face in his hands.

“I take you and you alone as lover and lord, once again, and forever,” he said right into Maglor's eyes. 

Still kissing him he trailed his hands down, and undid the buttons of Maglor's robe, a welcome task as much as a prerogative he'd never surrender to anyone else. Once Maglor's body was completely bare to him again, he folded his legs under himself and bent to suck on Maglor's nipples, as proof of his vow.

Maglor's left hand cradled the back of his head, and every sucking motion, every lick was rewarded by a pleased hum. He opened his mouth and closed it again around the hardened nub, pulled on it and flicked its tongue quickly over it. Then he let go of it for a few seconds, and squeezed Maglor's chest, making the nipple stand out even more. Smiling, he enclosed it with his mouth again, and grazed it with his teeth, before returning to placid sucking. He bestowed the same attentions on the other, losing himself in the delightful suction, luxuriating in the very texture of Maglor's skin, and leaving Maglor with both nipples turgid and tingling. 

He scooted back on his knees and bent down, ass up in the air, to suck on Maglor's cock. 

The thought crossed his mind if Maglor had let anybody else do this. But he didn't want to spoil the moment, and the answer to the question he could have asked was an obvious one. He himself had often sought physical gratification with others, but his heart had never been in it and he barely remembered the faces, let alone the persons. 

His left hand glided up Malgor's thigh to cup his balls while he lapped insistently at the head of his cock, avidly re-learning his shape and taste. He took his time, all slow fluttery kisses and draw-out swipes of his tongue, moving lower bit by bit, carefully tracing every ridge and thick vein, uncaring that Maglor grew markedly more impatient. His half-restrained moans were the best music Gildor had heard in while, and he could have kept listening to them for ages. Only when he himself was satisfied he pulled his mouth away and bid Maglor to lie back fully.

Maglor slid down, his hair fanning out on the pillows, and cupped Gildor's buttocks, kneading them. Gildor didn't allow him to do more. When Maglor swept his hands across his ass and parted his buttocks, creeping towards his hole, Gildor grabbed his wrists and wrested them away. Then he held Maglor down with a hand planted on his belly and used his other hand to stretch himself with the oil he had readied on the nightstand. 

While he struggled to stick three fingers as deep as they would go inside himself, Maglor started singing, a low, hoarse tune that Gildor didn't quite recognise, but which made his need to finally take his long-lost lover inside himself even more desperate.

“You wicked, wicked man,” he groaned. Sloppily, he splashed more of the oil between his legs, and quickly replaced his fingers with Maglor's cock. Once he was seated on Maglor's thighs, his passage stretched and full, he took Maglor's hands in his, and held onto them as he began to move. He raised himself but barely and lowered himself again, grinding down leisurely on Maglor's shaft, clenching his buttocks whenever he rolled his hips back, his movements blithe like waves gently rippling on a shore. His own cock bobbed freely, and twitched with the pleasure rubbed into his skin. 

Overjoyed, half-drunk on the friction inside of him, he let go of Maglor's hands and stooped forward to suck on Maglor's nipples again, slobbering all over them while still rolling his hips. He nearly screamed when Maglor slipped his hand between their bodies and wrapped long coarse fingers – much coarser than he remembered – around his cock. 

He straightened, flinging his head back. Tears stung his eyes again, and he worked himself more and more frantically on Maglor's cock and in his hand. He came first, his seed spraying in long, thick jets all over Maglor's chest. Maglor kept stimulating him all through his orgasm, moving with sharp jolts inside him, and thus he too came, prolonging Gildor's ecstasy. 

With Maglor's seed inside his ass, and his own come drying on Maglor's chest, he collapsed next to the older elf, clinging to him with legs and arms. 

“I won't let you go this time. Ever,” he ardently said. “You hear me?”

Maglor whispered an assent, cradling his head.


End file.
